


so let the memories be good for those who stay

by eugenides (newamsterdam)



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Team as Family, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:12:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/eugenides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Kennex doesn't much care for the holidays. These are ten ways he celebrates, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so let the memories be good for those who stay

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [flippingthevan](http://flippingthevan.tumblr.com/) via Tumblr's Almost Human Secret Santa. The title is from Mumford & Sons' "Winter Winds." This fic takes a lot of guesses at what the holidays might be like in the city in the future. There's also a bit of fluff that's probably explainable only as holiday cheer. In any case, I hope you enjoy it.

**i.**

It hasn’t been the best week. Pounding the pavement, looking for leads in a dead-end case is never fun, but during the third week of December it becomes almost unbearable. Three children missing, all between December 12th and 20th. All the cases line up with the same MO, but there’s no probable cause, no link between them. No leads, as he’d previously thought. And three helpless families, who make appeals to the news, saying all they want for Christmas is their children back. 

Fuck it all. 

They’re standing outside—canvassing the last victims’ street, because sometimes the oldest methods are still the best, and even when they aren’t sometimes they’re the last viable option. The chill is crawling up his limbs and seeping in through his colds. He shifts his position, from time to time, feeling the cold stiffening the joint where organic flesh meets synthetic limb. No matter how much longer they’re out here, he’s going to feel it in the morning. 

Happy holidays, indeed. 

He crosses his arms over his chest, lets out another breath that escapes him in a cloud of white vapor. He stares up and down the street again, looking for something—anything—he might have missed. Once again, he comes up empty. 

“John?” 

“What?” His voice comes out gruff, compressed by cold air and frustration. 

There are moments, like this one, when Dorian seems so human. He cants his head to one side, gives John a searching look. John knows his eyes have wiring and circuitry behind them, but Dorian’s gaze is keen and warm and—god, when’d he start thinking like this?

“I’ve found something.” No question, no uncertainty. Because while he looks human, the way Dorian works as a cop is precise and definite. 

“Yeah? Then let’s have a look.”

\--

The little girl clings to him, shivering as he climbs out of the cellar with her in his arms. Perfunctory examination tells him she’s not harmed—thank god—but she’s shaking, babbling into his shoulder a litany of words that he can’t make out or decipher. He can hear Dorian coming up behind them, the two little boys carried in each of his arms. 

Exiting the old decrepit house takes them out into the brisk air, a wave of cold rolling over them that seems to target John’s joints and makes them stiffen. Which is fantastic, he’s always wanted to feel like an eighty-year-old man.

But then the little girl is lifting her head, her dark eyes widening, and she’s screaming out, “Mama!” so loud, right in John’s ear, and he winces but he can’t bring himself to frown. 

Minutes later and the children are wrapped in blankets from the ambulance and the MXs from various squad cars are sweeping the scene. John’s standing off to one side, arms crossed over his chest. And that’s when the woman approaches him, eyes dark like her daughter’s, shadowed from days without sleep.

“Thank you,” she says simply, sincerely. “Thank you.” Her arms go around him, and though he stiffens against her embrace he finds himself saying something calm and comforting.

(“Just doing my job, ma’am. Glad to help.”)

Dorian’s standing a few feet away from him—recording the scene? Sending copies back to HQ? Just… thinking?—and John takes a few steps towards him.

“That was all you, today,” he says, not meeting his partner’s eyes. “You did good.”

He walks away abruptly, not waiting for Dorian’s response.

**ii.**

He’d forgotten about this. The way there’s always someone at the office who wants to be festive, who wants the rest of the world to be, too. So when they make it back to the precinct there’s tinsel everywhere, and candy canes tied with red ribbons left out on everyone’s desks, and goddamn mistletoe hanging in the doorways.

(He makes a point of avoiding the doorways when other people are around, slipping out the doors backwards so he can watch the room he just vacated and make sure no one sees him, make sure no one ends up in the doorway at the same time.)

The tree’s the worst part, he decides. It’s tucked away in a corner of the conference room, but that doesn’t make it any less intrusive. It’s six inches shorter than he is and there’s silver tinsel wound artfully around it. Instead of an angel or ornaments, a simple golden star is perched on top.

He makes a list, trying to decide who decided to decorate and what he’s going to do to them when he figures it out. He makes the mistake of telling Dorian about it.

“Come on, John. You’re really going to tell me you don’t like Christmas?”

It’s not so much that he doesn’t like it, no. But it’s a time to be spent with family, company—warmth and laughter and so many things he associates with the time before he woke up.

(It’s not that life’s bad, now. He likes his job and he likes being alive. He can smile, he can laugh. But some things aren’t the same and he doesn’t need glaring neon reminders of that wrapped in tinsel.)

Slowly, presents pile up around the tree. 

“Wasn’t me,” Rudy says, when John visits him down in his cavernous lab. “I’ve got more MXs slipping on ice and cracking joints than I know what to do with. I’ll be lucky if I get through this backlog long enough to take a vacation.”

John doesn’t mention to him that his joints are cracking, too, and shouldn’t someone have invented a way around this problem, yet?

“You’re joking,” Sandra says, when he asks her. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest and she’s giving him that look, that look that says she has to fight all her better instincts to keep him around and tolerate him. “John, you’re not the only one who spent the past week going after a kidnapper. Give me a break.”

He’s beginning to think he should’ve put his detective skills to work, decided who was a plausible suspect before he started asking questions.

“Yup,” Detective Paul says with a sneer. “You’re the only one around here who does any work, Kennex. I just _put up decorations_.”

Some days John really wants to whack him. He refrains, though, because he’s supposed to be a professional. 

“You really need to know?” Stahl asks him with her calm voice and wry smile. 

“Not really,” he mumbles. 

“Then why are you asking?”

He shrugs, walks it off. It’s only the 22nd, there’s still work to be done. 

**iii.**

His car has central heating but his joint still creeks as he takes his seat, and he can’t hide the scowl. He knows Dorian will notice before he even starts the engine. 

But his partner surprises him—he doesn’t focus on John’s synthetic leg, but rather on the mug in the cup holder.

“That’s not coffee,” Dorian says, mildly. 

“Did you need forensic analysis to tell you that?” John asks blandly. He’s driving with his forearm balanced against the wheel, looking straight out at the street in front of them. The sky is a dull gray—there’s no precipitation, just cold and chill and muted colors. 

“Usually, your mood is better when you’ve had coffee. I’m wondering if it’s a good idea to skip it.” Dorian’s got one arm leaned up against the window, but he’s turned to face John. He always does that, when he speaks—gives a person his full attention, makes sure they know it, too. 

“I thought we decided you weren’t going to comment on my life, anymore,” John grouses. 

“Choice of drink isn’t exactly a personal matter.” John liked it better when it was easier to get a rise out of Dorian. Hearing his partner yell had been disconcerting—because it was so human—but it was also comforting in a way. Confirmation that he wasn’t the only one bound to crazy moods and irrational behavior. 

John lets out a huffy sigh, shuts his eyes for moment. “It’s hot chocolate.”

“Hot chocolate,” Dorian repeats. It’s not judgmental, just curious.

“Peppermint hot chocolate,” John says, because in for a penny, in for a pound. 

“That’s festive,” Dorian says. “And here I thought you didn’t like the season.”

“I never said that.” He responds too quickly, knows he sounds defensive. But he can’t help it. “I never once complained about the season.”

“But you make a point of not appreciating it,” Dorian argues. “You don’t like the decorations, at the precinct.”

“Never said that,” John repeats through gritted teeth. “I like the season _just fine_.”

Dorian shrugs—who decided it was a good idea to program a synthetic to shrug?—and the two of them lapse into silence. It’s one of the few moments of ride along peace John’s had since they became partners, but it isn’t a respite. The silence stretches between them, cold and stale and awkward. 

It’s several minutes later when John opens his mouth again. “My dad loved the stuff,” he mumbles.

“Hm?”

“The hot chocolate. He’d stick candy canes in it, mix it around to spread the flavor. It’s just a stupid tradition.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid, John.”

“Yeah, well. Guess it doesn’t really seem like the holidays unless I can taste it, now.”

Dorian’s quiet for another long moment, then looks up to ask a question. 

“Did you listen to Elton John while drinking it?”

“Shut. Up.”

**iv.**

Today the precinct is cold and quiet. Crime is up—it’s always up, never down—during holiday seasons, and every squad they have is out working another case. He’s fortunate that he just wrapped up a major one; he and Dorian have been running light duty since and though he won’t admit it, he knows he needed the reprieve. 

But they’re all been working hard, he knows that. So as he steps through the building and dodges giant plastic stars and paper snowflakes, he nearly crashes into Stahl, coming out of the conference room.

“Sorry,” he mutters, dusting himself off. She smiles at him half-heartedly, waves off his apologies. 

Any other day he might’ve kept walking, might not have noticed. But the glaring decorations have been staring him in the face and he’s got peppermint running through his bloodstream. So he takes a second look. 

And he sees her, normally bright eyes dulled, lips pulled down in a frown. He’s seen her deep in thought and he’s seen her alight with anger and he’s seen her laughing deviously. But he’s never seen her like this.

“Wanna take a walk?” 

So they end up outside, walking close together for warmth. When they’re far enough from the precinct, he works up the courage to ask what’s wrong.

She doesn’t answer for several long moments—and there it is, the deep in thought expression—but eventually she turns to him and purses her lips.

“I’m used to it, you know,” she says. “I’m a profiler, I know how to separate the psyches of people who are desperate and those who are cruel and those who are so far gone they’re barely in control.”

He just nods, doesn’t interrupt.

“But that case you were working on,” she continues, “we’ve been working with the perp. And he’s just…” She pauses, shudders.

“He was a piece of work,” John says. 

“Some people just thrive on the despair of others. No other motive, no desire for anything. He just wanted those children to suffer, and wanted their parents and communities to suffer along with them.” Stahl shakes her head. 

He thinks, sometimes, that by confronting the worst of people you open yourself up to it. Let them dig under your skin and infect you with their anger or despair or whatever else it is. The trick is learning how not to succumb.

Stahl won’t succumb, he’s sure. She’s probably stronger than he is, definitely smarter. But everyone has days when the weight of it seems a little heavier.

His arm goes around her reflexively, and she leans against him. The cold air blows through them, but they stand side by side, leaning on each other.

**v.**

When they get back to the precinct it smells of cinnamon. The scent rises up to meet them, vivid and pungent and _everywhere_. There’s a tray of cookies on the conference table, sitting there innocently for anyone to claim. 

Sandra’s nibbling on one when they pass her in the hall. John raises one brow, questioning. She stares blandly back, challenging.

“What?” she finally demands. “It’d be worse if they went to waste.”

There’s nothing much to say to that, so ten minutes later John’s sitting at his desk with his feet up and the head of a gingerbread man in between his teeth.

And the damn thing is delicious. 

“Alright,” he demands between bites. “Who did this? If it’s the same Christmas Angel who thought we needed decora—”

“Calm down, Kennex,” Paul says from a few feet away, rolling his eyes. “I brought the cookies. It’s not a huge secret.” 

He blinks, takes another bite before the words really sink in. “You brought cookies.”

“Sure. Made ‘em, too.” John could blame it on his imagination, but does Paul actually look proud? Not that he shouldn’t be, the stupid things are addictive, but… 

“Since when’re you so domestic?” 

“None of your business,” Paul says, and buried his nose in the file he’s reading. John decides not to pursue the matter.

\--

But it’s hard not to hear, later, when Stahl and Paul are talking in the hall. He’s walking past too fast to make out the specifics, but the message is clear enough. Something about an ex-wife, and traditions, and picking up a recipe without even being aware of it. Ending up with a tray full of gingerbread men and nothing to do with them, no desire to eat them. 

It sounds lonely, to John, and he figures he must be some kind of expert on that score. 

He ends up tracking back to the conference room three times that day, munching on at least four or five of the stupidly delicious cookies. He decides he doesn’t like Paul any better for his hidden talents. He’s still a shit cop, and there’s no getting around that.

But when John’s leaving for the night, walking out past MXs that stare like ancient sentries, he pauses when he sees Paul leaving the office at the same time.

“Hey, man, have a good holiday.” 

Paul just nods, and John steps out into the cold.

**vi.**

Dorian is very concerned about the tree. John’s not sure when he first noticed this or why he cares, but his partner’s looked over at it four times today and it’s starting to get on his nerves. 

The fifth time, he throws his case file down on the desk and asks, “What?” through gritted teeth. “What is so damn fascinating about the tree?”

“It’s shedding.”

“Yeah. They do that.”

“Usually not until after the holiday.” John’s not sure when Dorian became an expert on Christmas trees, but he wishes he’d stop. 

"So someone got us a shitty tree. Big deal.” John reaches over to pick the file back up, the screen’s lights blinking at him reproachfully. 

“Or one that was chopped down much earlier than the ones sold on street corners or tree farms.” Dorian sounds thoughtful, and that’s never a good sign. John shoves another file towards him.

“If you’ve got time to talk, you’ve got time to do more paperwork.”

\--

It’s a few hours later when Dorian brings it up again.

“Did you know, that out of the families in the city who celebrate Christmas, only about five percent still buy organic trees?”

John’s sipping his coffee—and, yes, it is coffee today—and so it takes him a moment to actually pay attention to what Dorian’s saying. When it finally clicks, he just blinks.

“So?” he manages, finally.

“Organic trees are expensive,” Dorian explains. “And instead of buying one for their own home, someone got one for the precinct.”

“Maybe they got two.” It seems a reasonable-enough explanation to him.

“Hm,” Dorian says, noncommittal. John drains the rest of his coffee in two gulps, ignoring the too-hot burn on the roof of his mouth. 

“C’mon,” he says. “We’ve got work to do.”

\--

It’s another long day, another night when he arrives home too tired to really think about anything in particular. He’s got a routine all worked out—three steps into his home, dropping off his keys by the door and kicking off his boots. Taking the stairs two at a time, because it gets him to the loft quicker. Yanking out his synthetic leg with no ceremony, propping it up to charge while propping himself up against the desk. Working his way over to his bed, passing his the landing along the way.

He’s got a full view of his loft just before he throws himself into bed. He hasn’t bothered to decorate, and there’s nothing around that would even suggest that winter is here and the holidays are underway. 

No, the entire place is quiet and empty, just like is always is when he doesn’t bother programming music to blare through the too high walls and echoing spaces. 

There is no Christmas tree, organic or otherwise. 

John rubs at the edge of his thigh, where the cold has left phantom burns. It’s not long before the darkness seems to fold in on itself and he falls asleep.

**vii.**

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Sandra’s pursing her lips like she’s trying not to laugh. Paul looks exasperated, but there’s something lighter about the line of his shoulders. Stahl’s smiling at him, her head tilted to one side as though daring him to keep talking. And Rudy… well, Rudy’s been off in the corner for ten minutes, pouring out small cups of eggnog. 

Why is this his life, again?

“Come on, John,” Dorian says, because of course Dorian can’t keep his mouth shut. “You love Christmas.”

“I never said that.” 

“Mm,” Dorians says, an undecipherable syllable. But something about the tone of it makes it sound both knowing and indulgent. John shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“You want to have a holiday party,” he says, at length. 

Sandra chuckles, apparently losing whatever internal battle she’d been having over laughing at him. “We’ve had a good year,” she says. “It’ll be good for morale.”

He’s so sure.

\--

It’s too convenient that they’d all finishing working at once, so that’s not exactly how it happens. Different detectives and officers come in at odd intervals—coming off-shift, finishing filing case reports—and Sandra gets called away at least four times, to take calls and manage scenes and generally get shit done. She’s good, at that; it’s one of the reasons John’s always admired her.

But somehow he manages to see all of them throughout the day, seeming lighter than they usually do. Someone orders roasted sandwiches for the whole precinct, so he ends up leaning against a wall and munching on turkey and Swiss.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Dorian says, coming to stand beside him.

“What is,” John mumbles around a bite of sandwich.

“How a date on a calendar can make people act so differently.” Dorian’s got that tone in his voice, like he’s trying to figure out something that’s just beyond his grasp. John’s usually edgy, when he hears it, because he’s never sure if he has the right answers. 

(Part of being human though, isn’t it? Being in the dark, being confused, being _wrong_.)

“It’s not just a date,” John finds himself saying. “It’s a bunch of traditions that people associate with it. People need stuff like that, to keep them going.”

“That’s a lot of pressure, for a word and some numbers printed on a page.” Dorian says that with a half-smile, like it could be a joke if John wanted to take it that way. But he doesn’t. He finishes off his sandwich and dusts his hands off on his pants.

“I guess,” he says. “Try not to worry too much about it. If you fry your circuitry or something, Rudy’s gonna be after me for weeks.”

Dorian just shakes his head, and John is once again struck by the feeling that his partner is humoring him, somehow. 

**viii.**

Being cautious can only get you so far, and John’s never been very good at it to begin with. So it just figures that he’ll be backing out of a room as someone else is coming into it, that his back will hit their front, that he’ll drop the datadrive he’s holding right when someone yells out in a sharp, amused voice—“Mistletoe!”

_Godfuckingdamnit._

“Okay, look, we’re not going to—” He starts up even before he turns around, but when he does he surprised to find a hand resting on his shoulder. 

“Oh, come on, John,” Stahl says, smirking. “It’s in the spirit of the season.”

He doesn’t have a chance to say much else, because she’s leaning up to press her lips against his. It’s a chaste kiss, quick, and after a moment she’s leaning away from him and his neurons are obviously having trouble firing properly because his brain’s moving so damn slow.

She’s about to take a step away from him, but he reaches out and grabs her wrist, pulling her back. She steps forward, and her hair falls forward so that he catches the scent of honey.

And now he’s leaning down and kissing her in earnest, more forcefully than her delicate press of her lips to his; and he might be imagining it, but he can feel the corners of her mouth turn up in a smile as she leans into the kiss and runs her tongue gently over the seam of his lips. 

From somewhere far away John hears clapping, catcalls.

It doesn’t go any further than that. He pulls away first, she half-turns to face their audience. She’s not blushing, exactly, but there’s a warmth to her cheeks that lends color to her entire face. He can feel the back of his neck burning and is thankful no one will be able to see it. 

Of course, Detective Paul’s a member of their audience. “Well,” he says, looking rather dumbstruck. 

“I’m sure there’s some kind of rule, about fraternization,” Rudy says, but there’s a nervous smile playing on his lips, flashing in and out of existence with his jittery movements. 

Stahl looks up at John and lifts a brow, as if to say, _Well?_ But then she’s turning away with a breezy laugh, and in the next moment the spell is broken and everyone is getting back to work.

John decides not to think too much about it. He doesn’t want to burn out his circuitry. 

**ix.**

It’s an hour until Christmas Eve and John’s decided to wrap it up for the night. That’s when Sandra sticks her head out of the conference room door and calls out, “Kennex! Get up here.”

It’s very tempting to just ignore her and get on with his life, but he knows from experience that ignoring his captain is a bad idea. So even though he’s tired as anything, he makes his way over and steps into the room.

He’s accosted by music and light. It’s just the six of them, Sandra and Stahl and Rudy and Paul and Dorian and John himself. He should be suspicious, he knows, that they’re always the ones working late, always the ones who end up all together. But he can’t be, because though the lights are bright and the music is glaring, everyone’s filled with a quiet sort of happiness that washes over him and calms him down. He feels… happy, looking at them. 

“We wanted to thank you,” Stahl says after a few moments, and John’s turning towards her and giving her a confused look.

“For what?” 

“The decorations, the tree,” Rudy says, waving a hand. “Dorian told us. Don’t know why you had to be so secretive, it’s not like decorating the workspace is a crime.”

John’s turning to Dorian now, fixing him with the full force of his glace. “I never said it was me.”

“You never said that it wasn’t.” Dorian looks quietly pleased, the way he does after they’ve solved a case.

It never really occurred to John that he might be one more puzzle for Dorian to solve.

\--

“I got you something,” Dorian says, sometime later. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” John says immediately. Like so many things, with Dorian, a simple sentence sets loose a flood of questions. Does the precinct pay him? What does he do every night, when John goes home? Does he have free time; does he do anything with it if so? Sometimes John wonders, and sometimes he decides he’s better off not knowing.

“Just take it, John.” Dorian hands him a wicker basket, the kind of thing you see in old books and never in the real world. Never the less he pulls up the lid and looks inside.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

Dorian smirks. John props open the lid and a small kitten climbs out, with dark chocolate-colored fur and impossibly blue eyes. It’s a small thing, tinier than two of his fists placed side by side. 

“I’m allergic,” John reminds him gruffly.

“Won’t matter, with her.” And, sure enough, now that John’s looking at the kitten he can see clearly—she’s synthetic. Technology similar to the giraffe he used to keep on his desk, but more advanced and more lifelike. A creature that can act as a pet.

“I don’t _like_ them,” John reminds him.

“You don’t like a lot of things.” Dorian shrugs. The kitten yawns, then climbs its way into John’s lap. Even knowing she isn’t a truly living creature, John can’t bring himself to push her away. She edges down his leg to the space where his joint meets his synthetic leg. She curls up on the spot, purring as she lulls herself into synthetic sleep.

She’s warm, and soft, and everything a real kitten would be. He can feel the heat radiating off her small body, the heartbeat against his leg.

He thinks, idly, that it’s the first time in a week and a half that the spot hasn’t felt cold.

“Thanks, man,” he says to Dorian, his lips twisting into an expression between smile and frown. 

“You’re welcome, John. Merry Christmas.”

**x.**

A long time ago, John Kennex loved the holidays. He enjoyed a lot of things back then—the world was vivid and bright and he was a young cop who was going to make things even better.

Some memories from that time are still hazy to him, now. But certain things stand out in stark relief against the misty hazy of his life. The smell of peppermint, the specific texture of organic pine trees. A crowd of people smiling, and the warmth of personal contact. 

It’s the first Christmas in years that he isn’t asleep, or confined to a hospital bed. So though he’s loathe to admit it, he wants to celebrate. He wants the people he cares about to be happy. 

He’s lying in bed after a long week, a synthetic kitten curled up on his knees. 

He thinks briefly of Anna, of his father. But he lingers on others, the people who’ve populated the last year. He thinks about his partner—a puzzle he hasn’t figured out.

But then he just takes a deep breath, and lets himself be happy. 

It’s easier than it has been, for a while.


End file.
